I imagine if I scoured Ebay for long enough I could find an antiquated set that had long ago been discarded from a Hollywood stage. The furniture would smell of stale cigarette smoke, and there would be makeup on the arms of the guest chairs- a caked on mix of foundation and blush- the sort of makeup growth that clings to the telephone and doorhandles in my grandmother’s house. I would clean the chairs some, though not too much, and I would arrange them in a corner of my basement or a spare room in my office. I would then secure one of those unwieldy microphones that talk show hosts from that era used, and once the makeup was cleaned off of that I would be all but ready to create the pilot episode of my new show.
I would also have to buy a suit. And then I would look for my guests. I suppose I could find many of them just by putting some advertisements out in real estate publications and on real estate websites. The ad would read, “Buy a vacation home on the beach of some third world country? We’ll pay you cash for your story!”, or something like that. And it would have my email address and a phone number. I might go as far as securing an 800 number with some catchy mix of words, like “1-800-DISASTER”. But I probably wouldn’t buy the rights to that number until my pilot was picked up by HGTV or some other real estate programming hungry station. I would also lose some weight for fear that the camera would add weight that I cannot afford to be added.
On my set, I would sit at the desk. My guests would sit in those chairs I found on Ebay. We’d have a laugh track queued up so that when I pushed a button underneath my desk the imaginary crowd would erupt in laughter. I’d ask guest number one where they bought their dream vacation home. They’d list some island somewhere, and I’d push the button. Then I’d ask them what they paid, and then I’d push the button again. And then, when the imaginary crowed died down I’d ask my guest how many times they visit their vacation home on this island with the difficult to pronounce name, and I’d push the button. Once I was done with that first guest, I’d move on to the next. And I’d repeat the questions and push the button.
Once I got a little better at hosting and my comedic timing improved, I’d mix things up a little by pushing the button half way through their answer. The show would likely not be a success because of the redundancy. It would get a little old, in short order. I’d do my best to save it by interjecting some wit and I would most likely develop some sort of condescending trademark phrase, like Trump’s “you’re fired”, but something meaner and more to the point. The guests would all receive a Rand McNally atlas for their cooperation. It would be like Rob Dyrdek’s show except my guests’ decisions would be more ridiculous and the effects of their actions far more devastating than a broken nose or a cracked tailbone.
But I suppose I wouldn’t really do this show, unless someone from Concentric Entertainment is reading this and wants to talk. It would be too much work. Instead, I’ll just read the pages of the Wall Street Journal and enjoy the difficulties of those who deemed themselves to be so wealthy that they embarked on a vacation home search so outlandish that it led them from the obvious and into the oblivious. Yesterday, WSJ published yet another article on the misguided pursuit of vacation home utopia. It seems that plenty of people sent their hard earned money to some LLC on some sandy island and trusted whoever was behind that LLC to build the vacation home of their dreams. This, apparently, was a bad idea. Who knew? From the story:
Buyers say the practice of using deposits for construction was highlighted in most sales contracts, but they didn’t expect the projects to grind to a halt. “I had never purchased an island home before and should have been more careful,” says Mr. Carretta, who visited Anguilla often to monitor progress of his villa’s construction.
So I send my money, and you build me a condo on this island? Sounds great! Where do I sign up? Only $675k? That’s all you need? Are you sure I can’t send more!? What if I want to buy two condos, you know, one for me and one for all my friends that will want to come visit? You can do that? Perfect! What about hurricanes? Oh, you don’t have hurricanes there? Perfect! And the government is stable? You’re right, that was a dumb question. Of course that guy with the machine gun on his back is diplomatic and trustworthy! Can’t wait! Make sure the paint in my guest bedroom is seafoam green!
Why do the wealthy strive to outdo each other in vacation home absurdity? Is there some crown that gets passed around at secret meetings, and if your vacation home purchase was deemed the most extreme and ridiculous then you get to wear the crown at that meeting? This sounds likely to me. The pursuit of vacation home utopia drives people to do insane things, when most of the time all they’d have to do is simply drive. This is the easiest and most important thing for you to remember today. If you are wealthy enough to fly on your private jet to your vacation home, go ahead and buy one on that island somewhere. But if you have to subject yourself to the TSA before reaching that sandy isle, then skip it all together. If you ignore my sound advise, please do send my producer your contact information so that we might book you for our first show. I’ll have my itchy finger on the button.